The trek back home was a long one, and while his travels around parts of Pentamerone were interesting and a bit adventurous, it was simply good to be home. Home to the endless piles of dirtied teacups, pots, and saucers. Home to the both wonderful and aggravating life with the girl who had wandered strangely into his life twice now.

Night was falling as Hatter made his first step onto the property, stopping only briefly to inspect. Everything seemed to be in sorts, and once that check was successful, he continued up to the door. He nearly knocked before chuckling to himself at what an odd notion that would be, knocking on one's own door when there was surely no one at home except for him, and he would be the one doing the knocking. He brandished a small key ring from the pocket of his coat and listened to the clinging and clanging of metal as he flipped through to find the correct one.

The keys were placed back in their proper place within his pocket as he stepped through the unlocked door, closing the gateway behind him. He was only standing just inside of the threshold for a moment when a strange feeling hit him. Not that it really did any good, he sniffed once, then twice.

Something wasn't right here.

For a while, The Fool watched the space where the fairy had flown away.  A king?  A war?  Interesting, indeed.

The Fool wondered, suddenly, if It could die here.  That would change things significantly.

Best to be cautious, then.  But what to do now?  The Fool wandered, scuffing Its shoes against the cobblestones, and examined doorways.  At last It found one It liked.  A wizard?  The Fool liked to know the magicians of the land.  Even if It was prone to annoying the same at a later date.  That tended to make life more fun.

The Fool raised Its hand, and knocked three times.

Who: Gretel and Smee
What: Gretel needs a boat
When: Afternoon, Tuesday
Where: Open water
Rating: G

( The wind caught the sails and blew the ship forward across the water. )

Morozko, instead of turning back to his cold mountain how, followed a trail leading down between Camlann and the mountains and found himself at the edge of a huge lake. He sat down at its edge, like a small child fascinated by a new toy. He reached out and frosted the grass growing at the lake's edge with a touch. It dusted over with ice and snow, becoming brittle. So beautifully brittle. He touched the surface of the lake, letting ice and cold spill from his fingertips. A delicate pattern froze along the water's surface, leaving Morozko smiling.

He was bored. Nothing held his interest long enough in this place. Nothing except...his mouth curved in a smile. as he touched the water again. this time the ice patterns danced and formed into the shape of a face. A woman's face. Elegant, beautiful, cold and deadly. She was the only thing the stay in Morozko's mind longer than a few moments, a few days. She'd been there since he'd found her.

And then he lost her, and hadn't found her again. Frowning now, he stood, hovering in the air as his own cold winds swept him from the ground. Perhaps there was something else that could keep his interest. If not, he would have to go find Mabb again, find what made her so compelling.

Ozma had moved farther down her path, and found out more, piece by piece, about this world. A snippet here from a traveler, and a bit there for an overheard conversation, or any place else she could get the bits of information she needed.

Her small presence was a blessing for getting information, but she realized quickly, in this place would make it hard to lead a revolt. She had been considering several options, including masking herself back into Tip, but had finally settled on just finding help. She couldn't go at this alone, and the people here didn't seem so thrilled with the situation that she couldn't find those to help her.

She just wasn't sure how to go about it.

So she sat, and waited, and listened patiently for someone. She knew, eventually, it's come.

Mordred was no fool. Lancelot's sudden return was nothing but a sign to him, a sign that the rumors were in fact true, and Arthur had returned. He should have had Lancelot executed, but the man had made a great patsy before. He could certainly use him again. Besides one always knew to keep his enemies closer that his supposed friends. Besides, it wasn't as though Mordred didn't have his own spies. He knew of Arthur's imminent plan of attack. He knew of where his men were hiding [and least some of them], and had already sent some of his own to dispatch of them.

As he stood before the altar in the church, Guinevere to join him, one of his lieutenants came forward to impart some knowledge to him. Two groups of men stationed in hiding throughout the city had been completely dispatched. Mordred's smile was pure satisfaction as the ceremony was set to begin. Good. Let's see Arthur make his move now.

Arthur re-checked his sword belt, re fastened his cloak, and adjusted his chain shirt for the thousandth time in an hour.  There was nothing else he could do but wait.  But it wasn't easy.

His sword was sharpened, armor (what there was of it) on and rust free, scabbard belted on tightly.  The sword fit neatly into the scabbard as Arthur stood and faced the door.  He grabbed his cloak, looked around the wizard's shop for perhaps the last time, and walked out the door.  Arthur headed back to the area in front of the main gate to the castle, and found a place that was out of the way.  He settled down, leaning against the wall, with a great view of the sunset. 

The time would come soon enough.

Arthur stood there, looking out the window of the wizard's house/shop, staring into the growing darkness.  He had sent a letter approximately three hours ago to Lancelot, in a manner that assured that it would not be intercepted, asking him to meet Arthur here.  As he looked into the night, Arthur was glad he had this time to think.

He had used the intervening time to steel himself about the comments about Guinevere and Mordred that Lancelot was sure to make.  Being in the same castle, he was sure to have seen Guinevere, and may have even had to speak to her once or twice.  And since the plan was to insinuate himself as a guard in high rank, Arthur was sure that Lancelot had to speak to Mordred in person.  He kept his mind calm and felt prepared to speak to Lancelot rationally.  Well, more rationally than he did the last time, in any event.

Night crept slowly into the castle, never fully reaching its depths until a good few hours after sundown. Mordred retired early, while Morgan locked herself away in her wing of the castle and refused visitors until morning. Guinevere knew this as she watched the sun set, biding her time until she might sneak down to the kitchens and find something, anything, to ease the hungry ache in her stomach. For days, she had slept comfortably in an empty bedroom in the wing she had taken to, but there was no food and no water, and she'd be damned to admit that she could not be strong enough for self-imposed isolation.

But the days had grown longer, the nights restless, and finally Guinevere had resolved to nourish herself in the kitchens in the dead of night, long after Morgan and Mordred had retired. It was surely near midnight when the darkness was finally thick enough to warrant unbolting the doors to the wing and slipping into the shadowy corridors beyond, and Guinevere had a difficult time find her way down to the grand entrance hall of the castle, moonlight crisscrossing the floor from the small windows up above.

Her legs were shaking as she made her way across the hall towards the dark stairwell leading to the kitchens, but as she descended into the darkness, reaching the door into her destination, she found it bolted. Guinevere tried the handle but it would not budge. She tried valiantly for what seemed like hours but was likely only minutes, her unfed body collapsing from exhaustion even after such minor exercise. In a few moments, she was back on her feet, trying the door, but this time, she fell just as she had before, now a sobbing heap on the cold stone floor.

I'm in...he doesn't trust me, and he probably has someone watching me, but I'm in...

Lancelot stood on one of the lower ramparts of the palace, directly overlooking the gates and the main courtyard. He had presented himself at the castle earlier that morning, and had been admitted into the throne room.  As per the plan, he pretended not to know Mordred's role in his own disgrace, or anything of Arthur. He had offered his services as head of security for the upcoming wedding.  

Mordred had seemed suspicious, and had eyed Lancelot coldly.  "Why exactly should I put you in charge of my safety?" 

He had said "you" like it was distasteful, and his expression was what one might use when examining some new form of insect life. 

"I have had no challenges to my rule, and yet days before my wedding, the Mightiest Knight in the world arrives at my door offering to ensure my safety."

Mordred's tone when he called Lancelot the "Mightyest Knight" had carried a tone of doubt, just enough to be noticeable, but not enough to justifiably claim provocation. Lancelot kept his face neutral, but inside he struggled to keep control.

One court functionary had the ill-conceived thought to laugh at the implication in Mordred's statement. The cold stares of both Mordred and Lancelot sent him fleeing from the room.

In the end, Mordred had hired him, almost dismissively, as if hiring Lancelot might make him go away and leave Mordred in peace.  As he bowed his way out of the room, he noticed Mordred speaking with one of his guards, but Mordred's eyes never left Lancelot.  

He knows I'm up to no good.  If he's heard that Arthur is here, he probably plans to use me as a distraction to keep Arthur busy while the wedding happens.

Lancelot had smiled at the thought. Arthur would be kept busy, all right...busy doing very painful things to Mordred.

He had left word for Arthur with the wizard, saying that he would try to sneak out tonight to speak with him. Then he gathered his belongings and returned to the castle.  He stood now surveying the main approaches to the keep, planning out troop movements that would seem logical but would leave gaping holes for Arthur's forces to exploit.  

Well, that and thinking up all sorts of things to do to Mordred that leave the bastard in immense pain but still alive.

In the yard below, servants and guards hustled about, occasionally looking up at the strange new knight who stood on the battlements smiling.

Guinevere was the last to hear the news. It did not shock her that Morgan and Mordred had conveniently forgotten to inform her that her wedding would be in a week's time, but that did not make the dealt blow any easier to bear. The look on Mordred's face when she called upon him, having been congratulated on her upcoming wedding by a page who had arrived at the castle, had made her ill, both from its iciness, and from the way that, not for the first time, she saw a bit of his father's face. He had tried to touch her arm, but she had pulled away before he could take greater advantage of her distress. She ran from his chamber, locking herself in the farthest, empty wing of the castle.

It was now three days later, and Guinevere was still in her self-imposed isolation. She had heard, from listening at the bolted door, that Morgan was stemming her nephew's irritation with his bride having locked herself away, telling the man to give Guinevere time. But time was what she dreaded. It was only a matter of days before the wedding, and no amount of solitude and pride would be able to put off the inevitable. Her resistance was too little too late, and neither Mordred nor his witch aunt would wait any longer now that an official date had been set. Guinevere felt more their pawn than ever.

The small thought had still not left her mind that there was a chance, a glimmer of possibility, that Arthur was still out there, still trying to find and save her. Even the hatred that Guinevere knew that Arthur harbored for her would pale in comparison to the utter shame of being Mordred's bride. And yet, perhaps it was better this way. Arthur would want the both of them dead - herself and Mordred - and was death really a better option than being wed to such a snake? Guinevere had given up hope long ago of having a good, peaceful life, especially now that she was surely in this place for eternity. She had even, if only recently, acknowledged that Galahad was not coming back for her, that he was either dead or against her; that realization did not even hurt, really, for it was only another in a long string of lies she had believed.

But if Arthur was coming for her...and if he could forgive her...if he could love her again as she did him...

Guinevere fell against the wall, the tears coming swiftly, in torrents down her face, and collapsed down to the floor. She could not hope, not if it would reduce her to this. He wasn't coming for her, neither to kill her nor to save her...he wasn't coming at all. He never had been. Another lie.

The sun hung low on the horizon, enormous and burning a dark orange-red. It cast a merciless light across the Blasted Lands - the dunes glittered goldly and, at this time of day, cast great dark shadows across the waste. All that was visible for miles and miles was that vast sea of sand, unchanging and barren, and, strangely, a figure moving slowly across it on foot.

Moon had wrapped her tender feet in strips of cloth that she had torn from her clothing. She had been traveling for two days across the desert, staying in the shadows of the dunes when she could during the day and seeking shelter in shallow, rocky caves at night. When, in the city, she had become seperated from the people she had met - Jinn and Piper, kind, queer people who had helped her and seemed to understand her - she decided to go back out into the Blasted Lands. She had to go somewhere and she had the sense that there was something out in the sands, something that called faintly to her. Moon had no idea what it could be, good or bad, but she had decided to go, both to see what it might be and to discover more of the world. But after a few days out in the unforgiving desert, she was beginning to rethink her decision.

 

They had parted company some ways back, the Fool and the Hero, the Hero hurrying off to do meet someone and the Fool wandering the streets of the strange little town.  Charming, in a way, but unsettling. 

Here, there was no getting lost in thought - nearly all of the passers-by tugged at the Fool in some way.  Another hero here, an evil wizard there, a wisewoman at the fruit stand.

It bothered the Fool.  It bothered the Fool greatly.

At length, the Fool stood uncharacteristically still with Its hands in Its pockets and watched the fountain in the center of town.

"It was this way," Mowgli said, slipping his hand into Swan's. He led his friend past the outskirts on a large and strange city, shying away from it as much as possible. He still didn't like cities; they were too full of people, of things and noises. They weren't like the jungles or the woods. He missed the jungle. His own, but he didn't know how to get back there. The best he could do was take Swan where he knew there was a jungle here in this strange world. It was where he'd woken up so long ago, after he left the man-village and started walking.

It wasn't his jungle. It was someplace else ripe with dark green life, a rushing river, and curious creatures. It was strangely full of birds and animals he couldn't name. He had no idea of the dangerous creatures who lived there: man-eating mermaids, wild fey, and other dark creatures he'd never heard of. He just knew it had life, the kind Mowgli grew up with, the kind he sorely missed. It wasn't his home, but it was close, and he wanted to show Swan.

They finally left the city behind, entering a dense jungle. Some of the leaves on the trees were wide as Mowgli's hand. Or his head. There was a brilliant smile on his face as he went. He squeezed Swan's hand and looked at him as they started walking through the Rajani Jungle, as the place was called. "What do you think?"

Arthur walked down the streets of Camlann, making his way toward his makeshift home - The Wizard Pendragon's Shop. The time seemed right to move, and yet, there was no news of the impending wedding. Arthur decided to stop at the shop to see if there was any word about that. There was so much to do, and he felt he had done all that could be done. But not quite. There was something missing. Something more to do.

With a sigh, Arthur knocked on, and then opened the door to the shop. As he went to unfasten his cloak, he spoke quietly.

"Wizard Howl? Are you at home? There is something I wanted to speak about."